Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE PHANTOM OF A ROSE, by THOMAS STURGE MOORE



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE PHANTOM OF A ROSE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Ah,' thought she, 'if there
Last Line: Fused into the heart of light.
Alternate Author Name(s): Moore, T. Sturge
Subject(s): Ballet; Dancing & Dancers


"AH," thought she, "if there
But one young man like this rose were
Deep with crimson as ocean with green,
With not one billowed petal flawed,
With scent that dims the beauty seen
With beauty known, till overawed
The domineering eyes relent
In the dark palace of mute scent,
And, humid, vail before the throne
Of sense more puissant than they own.
With eyelids closed and blind heart fearless,
Then would I yield to my prince Peerless.
Oh that then were now!" she sighed
And let her head nest in her hair
Bunched on the back of the cushioned chair.

And lo! incipient sleep replied..
Her rose sways, lifts from where she dropped it,
Enlarges, floats as though ripples propped it.
While visibly as on chill air breathing
Fragrance transform to a rosy mist!
Which halo-sphere befilms with wreathing
Trails of pink and amethyst.
The petals unaccountably,
As a breeze may cling to a single tree
Though all the wold around move not,
Bestir themselves as each had got
A separate soul. The smallest pair
From out the centre upward jet,
Poise and fold themselves on the air
Till jaunty like a cap they set
A little above four larger leaves
That into a velvet doublet round.
While, fallen and writhing on the ground,
Two, as when caterpillar weaves
Its sleep a hammock, are rolled, are turned..
Have their ends shaped by witchery
Till crimson dancing pumps they be.
That visible lucent atmosphere
Solidifies:
Young limbs appear
Tapering down in green hose gloved!
Warm blood informs that doublet red!
Under short curls, see! daring eyes!
Under that cap a well-thatched head!
Her need has leapt, her heart has loved
Ere he with doffed cap kneel to her.

"Matter to thought is docile where,
Beyond your senses' range,
Lies the world from whence I come:
There no intent is dumb,
Hearts are express.
To me seem strange,
Grievous and comfortless
Your dead walls ever as they were,
Your disobedient furniture,
And obdurate insensitive lies
All tissues that disguise.
Less than your flesh our webs immure
Emotion, for to any hue,
Chameleons of the soul,
We flush apparel through,
Our voices' luminous control,
From song to whisper, can traverse
Phases like those of the moon;
And groups of friends converse
As to a constellation wrought;
While tenser than the tropic noon
Glow hours when all are rapt in thought,
And darkness is unknown,
For always many muse alone.
That world of light can heighten this,
Make a rose lovelier; and it is
The earth-bound heart's clear loyal will
That sets our paradise athrill,
Breaks into bloom the rarest scented,
Or sends a butterfly contented
Sailing cerulean-winged through trees
Whose sap is a long life's victories."

She ached to rise, she yearned to speak,
She strove to smile, but proved too weak;
As one who in quicksand neck-deep,
Wild with the will, has no power to leap;
Her limbs like a sunken ferry-boat
Lay logged with sleep and could not float.
She had danced too often at the ball,
She had fluttered, nodded, and smiled too much.
Tears formed in her heart: they did not fall.
Her thought, pitying her, could not touch
The spring of emotion; even a blush
Failed her shame; her body hung
Sullenly back like a dumb man's tongue.
Hers, that had welcomed so many young eyes,
Though this pair of them all she could least despise,
Greeted him not: yet, unoffended,
He rose, and danced a visible song;
With rhythmic gesture he contended
Against her trance, and proved so strong
That the grapes of his thought wore the bloom of his mood
While her soul tasted and understood.

"Lay aside this weight!
A rarer substance thou dost own,
More refined.
This is but a cumbrous gown
That loads and thwarts a soul elate,
And, ageing, disenchants the mind.
Sweet one, thou art blind!

Young, make thy escape,
Ere touch less deft than Hope's have moulded
Thee, and come
Where desire is unfolded
In fulfilling hue and shape,
And life in nought is marred or dumb;
Sweet, be venturesome!

Single thou mayst do
A greater deed than heroes who
Strike tyrants dead:
Or than the wise whose pains unlatch
In Nature traps, and hold them wide,
While they with shrewd description match
The secret toil that throbs inside.
Joy won and fled,
Since men think not, when facing worse,
On ills that courage erst made good;
And those who most have understood
Still front in ignorance Fate's curse;
But those who on themselves turn round,
Wrestle and win, transformed are crowned."

All vanished: and she felt the strain
Of the sense-impeded will
Through every tissue wrench in pain;
Then recover with a thrill
As her phantom slowly came
Steam-like from her nerveless frame.
First a ghostly head and shoulders
Where phosphorescence vaguely smoulders:
Next, opal-misted bust, flank, loins;
Then all that these to ankles joins;
Last, twin soft air-treading feet.
To itself that cloudlike form
Seemed alone in a blank void,
And lacked all thought of who might see it.
But as it realized life's warm
Likeness, and into beauty joyed
The presence of that rose-begotten
Youth, till then so far forgotten
Flushed back..
And instant on her wish's track
Came its fulfilment, sumptuous veiling
Warm like air or water gliding
Over her, round her, down her, hiding
From neck to instep, and freely sailing
Voluminous after her when she moved.
Raising her lids, she first approved
The fabric, which was finely rayed..
Argent frequent on violet,
With seams outlined in beads of jet.
Then hers sought his eyes unafraid.
For admiration aptly gifted
They join their hands and are uplifted;
While down-distancing she perceives
In reflex as from well's deep gloom
Walled and narrow, her own room..
Her tiny bed, her glass, her press
Open, and in it her ball-dress..
Her unknit figure over the chair
In petticoat with corset loose;
And, before its silken shoes,
On the white floor-cloth a mere dot,
The crimson rose, as dropped, lay there.
She saw and knew these things had not
Been real conditions of her life,
But travesties born of a futile strife
Between her faculties and will
That wried the world perversely till
She cried against it, and was heard
In the flawless realm her soul preferred.

Happy where we long to live,
Clad by each glad thought, she in
Different jacket, skirt, or snood,
Strolls under trees where flowers give
"Good-day" to her, though not one spin
Or of the morrow ever think.

Her neighbourhood takes her elation..
Nay, gives each mood due celebration;
For flowering branches in that wood
Smile blue which yesterday glanced pink
While cups that were have become bells,
And with their fashion changed their smells.
Her dance is eloquent, and repose
Distils fresh dew on all she knows.
Then if she meet her friend, she sees
His trees come gliding between her trees,
When, sympathetic with their will,
Beneath them heaven heaves in a hill;
While his blooms twine their stalks with hers
Till a holt form round them that is theirs
In unique beauty. Distinct from his,
Blossom and leaf and branch and stem,
Not more like hers that plant-life is,
But appropriate solely unto them.
And glimpsed beyond its boscage lie
Moutain, plain, sea-coast and sky;
For theirs are friends of open heart,
Leader, poet, saint and lover
Who in that world from this recover..
Great natures, they health and thought impart,
Shape and make grand
The spirit's land,
Are filled and fill with admiration,
Create and are their own creation,
Till adoring they unite,
Fused into the heart of light.





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